


Light Up The Sky

by queuebird



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Lights, Hopeful Ending, Jewish Character, M/M, Neighbors, Pre-Canon, right person wrong time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21910003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queuebird/pseuds/queuebird
Summary: In which Eames falls in front of Arthur’s window while trying to put up Christmas lights.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 79





	Light Up The Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Premise comes from [this](https://nadiahilker.tumblr.com/post/133627477715/im-always-a-slut-for-a-christmas-au-i-know-we) post.  
> Thanks [toomuchpink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchpink) for the beta and [Vamillepudding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamillepudding) for cheerleading <3  
> Happy holidays, all!

After a green architect pretty spectacularly botches their last job on a balmy December morning, leading to an action movie combination shoot-out and car chase, Arthur figures it’s safest to spend the holidays away from anyone he doesn’t want to get hurt. The three members of their team--Cobb, Rae, and Arthur--had hightailed it out of Shanghai and spread across the globe, Arthur himself ending up in Manchester, where he owns one of several safehouses.

He gets in late on a Friday evening, the sky swirling with snowflakes and a small layer of powdery snow already forming underfoot. He drags his stuff down a narrow, creaky hallway and bursts into his tiny apartment, cheeks reddened and shoes wet. It’s a pretty barren, bleak room, kind of chilly, but Arthur’s exhausted enough from the Shanghai mess to just strip off his damp outerwear and collapse into the couch, sending dust flying. 

The couch is old and creaky, but comfortable enough, and Arthur sighs as he stretches his legs out over the armrest. He watches the snow fall outside and the occasional flash of a car’s headlights through the apartment’s one window, with his eyes half closed, and lets himself relax for once.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but when he opens his eyes the light shining through the window is very slightly pale the way it is right before the dawn. The world feels muffled and soft, and when Arthur looks outside he can only see white for how hard it’s snowing.

He rubs his face and groans, his body aching from hours spent in an awkward position, and spends the morning cleaning up his place so it looks less like a jail cell. The snow stops around noon, and Arthur lunches on a package of dried fruit he finds in his luggage, then takes a nap in his actual bedroom. By the time he wakes up, a snowplow has been through, pushing drifts so high they’ve almost covered his window. What little he can see of the sky shows that it’s already darkening.

He’s standing at his kitchen sink trying to coax his kettle into life when he hears the muffled _thump_ of a body hitting the snow outside.

_Shit._

Arthur grabs the pistol off his table and slides into the darkest corner of the room, heart beating wildly in his chest.

The person outside groans and curses loudly.

Arthur crouches down and looks up at the sliver of view outside his window. He can just see a dark shape lying, defeated, on top of the snowdrift. A string of Christmas lights runs from underneath it up into the apartment right above Arthur’s. Arthur creases his forehead and lowers the gun.

When the shape doesn’t move after a couple minutes, concern gets the best of him. He knocks on his window and calls through, “Hey, are you alright?”

The person shifts and makes an unintelligible noise.

Arthur flicks a quick, suspicious glance around the immediate area. He sticks the gun in the waistband of his sweats, throws on his coat and boots, and goes outside, shoes crunching up the snow bank.

When he reaches the guy, he drops to his knees, snow flying everywhere, and places a gentle hand on his upper back. “Hey, you okay?”

The man shifts his head so he’s facing Arthur, his eyes still closed. “M’fine,” he mumbles. He’s got unkempt dark hair and a week-old scruff. Arthur squints and wonders if this guy’s entirely sober.

“Okay,” Arthur says. “Break anything?” 

“Don’t think so.” 

Arthur gives him a quick once-over. He seems alright; the snow cushioned his fall pretty well. “You think you can stand?”

The guy’s eyes flutter open and he spends a brief moment staring at Arthur in silence. Something changes in the guy’s face. “Sure, love,” he says. He attempts to heft himself up, then winces. “Some help?”

Arthur wraps an arm around his middle and braces himself, pulling upward. The guy staggers to his feet, kicking up some more snow. He leans heavily on Arthur. “Thanks, pet.”

Arthur nods. His eyes follow the line of Christmas lights from the ground up to the window right above his own, where they ring one corner before forming the flight path of this Icarus.

“Should I even bother asking what happened?” he remarks dryly. 

The guy huffs a laugh, warm air ghosting across Arthur’s neck. “Don’t remind me, I’m embarrassed enough as it is,” he says.

Arthur smiles and pats the man’s side in what he hopes is a comforting way. Together they shuffle slowly back into the apartment building and up the stairs to the second floor.

Arthur hesitates when they reach the doorway to the guy’s apartment. “Er--well, I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll just.” He gestures vaguely behind himself.

The guy clicks his tongue. “Oh, come in, you look frozen.”

Arthur glances down himself and realizes that his thin gray sweatpants are soaked through at the knees, damp at the bottoms, and that he’s shivering. He looks back up; the guy’s smile widens.

“Well. I wouldn’t want to impose--” he begins.

“Please, it’s the least I can do."

The guy’s apartment is cozy and friendly, though the open window has chilled the temperature considerably. The guy crosses the room quickly to wind all the Christmas lights back in and shut the window. “Sit anywhere, love,” he says. “Want something to drink? Tea?”

“Sure,” Arthur says. He leaves his jacket and boots at the door and perches on the edge of a sprawling armchair, wary of his damp clothes. A lump under his ass reminds him that his gun is still on him, and he hurriedly shoves it under his thigh. He takes a moment to look around the place. It’s packed with mostly mismatching furniture, pillows, a television, and some bookshelves. The guy has an eclectic, apparently random taste in home furnishings.

“I’m Eames, by the way,” the guy throws over his shoulder as he’s bustling around the kitchenette.

“Arthur,” Arthur replies absently, examining the knickknacks on Eames’ end table. There’s a small stack of books, a couple pens, a tacky plastic souvenir keychain proclaiming “I ♥️ LONDON,” several crumpled Tesco receipts, a pad of sticky notes, and a dusty watch with a leather band. Arthur rubs the grime off the watch face--its hands are frozen forever at eight past seven.

Eames hurries over with two cups of tea, placing one on the end table beside Arthur and settling into the armchair next to it. Arthur clutches his cup with two chilly hands and smiles up at Eames before sneezing delicately into his shoulder.

“Thank you, Eames,” he says.

“Are you new?” Eames leans forward in the armchair. “I haven’t seen you around.”

“Um, yeah. Got in a couple days ago.” Arthur sips at his tea. It’s too hot. He suffers a scorched tongue in silence.

“Before the snow got bad, huh? Lucky you.” Eames grins.

Arthur acknowledges this with a tilt of his head before sneezing again, hard enough that some hot tea sloshes onto his hand. Arthur sets the cup down and wonders why he must always be in agony.

“Coming down with something?” Eames asks, looking more pleased than the question would warrant.

“No, I’m fine.” Arthur rubs at his nose with his sleeve. “I don’t get sick.”

“You don’t get sick,” Eames repeats, amused.

“Mmm.” Arthur licks at the tea on his hand.

“I suppose you don’t make a habit of mucking about in the snow in pajamas, saving handsome men from their untimely demises, then.”

Arthur’s surprised into laughter. “No, not really.” He sips his tea cautiously, then adds, “Only the ugly ones.”

“Oi,” Eames says.

Arthur smiles, brief, and they lapse into an awkward silence, Eames just looking at him consideringly, and Arthur overthinking what he’s said. He’s suddenly very aware that he’s sitting on a couch in a stranger’s apartment, and Eames is big enough to overpowerhim if he caught him by surprise. Also, his legs are starting to go numb in his wet pants. 

Arthur swallows down more tea and glances at the door. “I should…” he begins.

“No, yeah, no, ‘course.” Eames stands up and Arthur follows suit. “Pleasure to--” 

“Yeah, nice to meet you.”

“Yeah.”

After a pause, Arthur sticks his hand out. Eames looks amused, but shakes it. His hand is warm and dry, like he wasn’t lying in a snowdrift twenty minutes ago.

They hold for a little too long before Arthur lets go.

...

The next time Arthur sees Eames is a week later, when he’s standing outside the door to the building, fumbling with his keys and four bags of groceries because he’s finally decided to start being a real person and not order Chinese food for every meal.

“Let me get that for you,” Eames says, coming up the steps behind him.

Arthur steps back and lets Eames unlock and shove the door open. “Thank you, Eames.”

“Where are you?” Eames asks. “I’ll carry your stuff.”

“Oh,” Arthur says as Eames takes his bags from him. “I mean, you don’t have to.”

“One good turn deserves another, mate, haven’t you heard?” Eames tells him seriously.

Arthur rolls his eyes but directs Eames to his apartment, which--looking through Eames’s eyes, must seem much barer and duller than Eames’s. Arthur didn’t see a point in furnishing beyond the bare minimum when he was only going to be there til the new year, which is when he’s got his next job, but it looks sort of pathetic--just the couch, a couple chairs, and a fold-out table covered in take-out boxes.

Arthur takes the bags from Eames and sets them in the kitchen. “You want anything? I think I’ve got some beers somewhere in here.”

“You know the way to a man’s heart, Arthur,” Eames says, leaned against the wall watching Arthur haphazardly guess what belongs in the fridge and what belongs in the cabinets.

Groceries away, Arthur puts the living room in some semblance of order, gathering all the take-out boxes in his arms and dropping them in the trash can as Eames settles into the couch. 

“I saw you got your lights up,” Arthur says, handing Eames a beer and sitting down beside him. “Very impressive.” The bright outline of Eames’s window, ringed by both color-changing lights, white, snowflake-shaped lights, and blue icicle lights, is hard to miss.

“Yeah? Don’t they look great?” Eames puffs up, pleased. “Those are only some of them, I have a whole collection.”

Arthur looks at him incredulously. “You have _more?”_

“Absolutely, I’ve lined them around the room, it’s lovely.” He pauses, tilting his head, “They weren’t up when you were there. You should come by again.”

Arthur glances around his gray, barren room. “That’d be nice,” he says.

“Not settled in yet, hmm?” Eames leans back into the couch and drinks from his beer, looking around. Arthur has never been one to worry about what people thought of him, but he feels Eames’s gaze on his place like a physical touch.

“Not really, it’s been...busy.” He spent all of yesterday lying on the couch fucking around on his laptop.

“Are you...here visiting family for Christmas, or…?” Eames ventures.

Arthur blinks. “Well, no.” He hasn’t thought of his family for a while. “No, I’m--well, I--they’re Jewish, so--but also, no. Just myself, this year.”

Eames blinks, and then nods, hurriedly. “Oh, yeah,” he says, “‘course.”

He’s not in the mood to correct Eames’s obvious misinterpretation of his relationship with his family, so he just asks, “Are you?” 

“Nah.” Eames smiles. “Got the lights and _Die Hard,_ haven’t I?” 

Arthur laughs. _“Die Hard?”_

“A Christmas classic,” Eames says sincerely.

Arthur rolls his eyes. _“Die Hard_ isn’t a Christmas movie.”

“You poor, misled man,” Eames says, shaking his head in disappointment. 

“What about _Die Hard_ gives you warm, fuzzy Christmas feelings?”

“What _doesn’t?”_ Eames counters.

“I’m seriously concerned about how you spend your Christmases, now,” Arthur says. “Are they all this violent? Is falling out of your window an annual occurrence?”

Eames points at him. “You come over, we’ll watch it. I’ll set you straight. You’ll understand by the end of it.”

“Of course you’re the type of asshole who talks through the entire movie.”

“You’re damn right, I am.”

It hasn’t escaped Arthur’s notice that that’s the second time Eames has invited him over in the past five minutes. Arthur considers him, his rumpled striped shirt, the slouch of his shoulders against Arthur’s couch. He’s sort of pretty, isn’t he?

“I’m starting to see,” Arthur notes dryly.

…

Arthur comes over to Eames’s the weekend before Christmas--unannounced, but as far as Arthur can tell, Eames spends as much time alone as Arthur does.

They haven’t exchanged numbers or anything. Arthur wonders if Eames has kind of picked up on Arthur’s secrecy. If the bareness of his apartment or the shiny silver suitcase in the corner gave him a hint. Or maybe it was the gun on the table.

Sometimes, Arthur feels like dreamshare hangs over his head like a cloud.

“Arthur!” Eames booms, framed in his doorway. “Come in, come in.”

Arthur steps inside and is immediately enveloped in the warmth and comfort of Eames’s apartment. He wasn’t lying about the Christmas lights--they’re lined around the walls, across the bookshelves, up on the ceiling and in the corners, a riotous tangle of white and red and green and blue and blinking, tree-shaped or globe-shaped or star-shaped or icicle-shaped. It’s quite charming in its chaos.

“Have you eaten? You’re very lucky,” Eames is saying, bent into the oven, “as I have _just_ toasted a--” and he pulls out a pizza.

Arthur turns his gaze back at Eames. “You were just...making a pizza for yourself?”

“Naturally,” Eames says. “Are you never struck with a craving for pizza?” He lays the pizza on his table, drawing up a chair and beckoning Arthur.

“Well, yeah, but.” Arthur sits down. The pizza smells incredible. He had a bowl of cereal a couple hours ago and, like, some water. “Thank you,” he tells Eames.

Eames flaps a hand dismissively. “Of course!” He takes a piece of the pizza and sticks it in his mouth and immediately drops it. “Fuck, it’s hot.”

“Yeah, Eames, you just took it out of the oven.”

“Oven, shmoven,” Eames says. “What did you think of the lights, Arthur?”

Arthur looks around--the room glitters. “They’re--I mean, amazing, but wow there’s a lot of them.”

“Yeahh,” Eames scratches at the back of his neck, “it’s a bit of a mess here...I put all the effort into my bedroom. If you want to see.”

Arthur glances at him sharply. Eames looks back--warm, good-natured, but serious.

“Sure,” Arthur says. “After the pizza.”

...

Like Arthur’s place, Eames’s bedroom is just the only other room in the apartment. It’s dark and windowless when they enter. Eames says, “Hold on,” and fumbles with the light switch. The room’s light goes off, and the Christmas lights come on.

“Oh.” Arthur tilts his head up. The ceiling sparkles above them with innumerable small white lights, a thousand stars in the dark sky of Eames’s bedroom. “Eames, it’s lovely.”

When Arthur looks back, Eames has stepped up close to him--close enough that if either one of them was to lean forward, their chests would be pressed up together. Arthur breathes out, just gently, and watches Eames’s eyes drop to his mouth. 

It’s not unexpected. It’s not even unwelcome. Arthur considers the pros and cons of sleeping with the upstairs neighbor in a safehouse he’s only used once before.

Eames’s hands come up to cup his face. Arthur blinks, slowly, and comes to a conclusion.

“Can I kiss you?” Eames murmurs.

Unwittingly, Arthur grins. “Yes,” he says.

Eames leans in and they’re kissing--soft and sweet, like Eames is afraid Arthur will push him away. Arthur turns into his attention, intoxicated by Eames’s lips and hands and his thumb, stroking back and forth over Arthur’s cheek. It’s been a long time since he’s been kissed like this, he thinks foggily. 

Eames pulls back after a moment. Arthur just manages to bite back a pathetic sound.

“Happy Hanukkah,” Eames says.

Arthur stares, then laughs. “Fucking--I can’t _believe_ you,” he says, lifting a hand to the back of Eames’s neck and trying to pull him back in.

“What?” Eames asks, but he’s smiling, too. “I feel bad about what I--”

“Shut _up.”_

“--you know, I need to be _inclusive,_ and today’s the first _\--”_

Arthur catches Eames’s lips again and again over Eames’s protests, until Eames goes quiet and it’s just their mouths pushing, exploring.

They don’t fuck. They watch _Die Hard_ , because Eames insists. Arthur gets bored halfway through and starts kissing Eames again. Eames obliges him for a moment, then pushes him away to rant about the Christmas spirit of sweaty, bleeding Bruce Willis gunning down other men.

This guy, seriously.

…

In the days between then and Christmas, Arthur only runs into Eames once, when he’s just coming into the building and Eames is just leaving. They lock eyes, Arthur still flushed from the cold and pulling his gloves off, and Eames backs him up against the wall and kisses him, hard. Before Arthur can do much more than tentatively kiss back, he leaves.

Arthur doesn’t try to visit again; neither, for that matter, does Eames.

On Christmas Eve, Arthur buys a bag of shitty gelt in a burst of nostalgia. He eats it all in one sitting, and it’s as terrible as he remembers.

He watches _Home Alone, The Nightmare Before Christmas,_ and _Die Hard_ , wonders what Eames is doing, then falls asleep and suddenly it’s Christmas.

He reheats last night’s chicken for breakfast, responds to some texts from Cobb and Mal, cleans the PASIV, plays three games of chess against himself, reads a battered, coverless novella he finds in his medicine cabinet, tries to draw Starry Night in MS Paint from memory, and takes a nap.

He’s never been good at having free time.

A couple hours later, he’s standing in the building foyer about to go out for Chinese, staring at the wall Eames kissed him against, when he sighs, says “fuck it,” and tramps up the stairs to Eames’s place.

“Hey,” he says when Eames opens the door, letting out a cacophonous mix of food smells, “I was just--wow, are you okay?”

“What? I’m perfectly fine.” Eames, one hand occupied with a mixing bowl and the other with a whisk, rubs at his face with his shoulder, a wild look in his eyes. It only serves to spread out the dark sauce on his cheek. There’s a bandage around one of his fingers, and his hair is sticking up at the back. Part of it looks singed.

He must be preparing dinner for someone, or his family or something. Of course he is, it’s fucking _Christmas._ What was Arthur thinking?

“I’m...sorry,” Arthur says, awkwardly. “You’re busy. I can go.”

“No--” Eames makes to move forward, but stumbles slightly over the doorway and stops, grimacing at the bowl in his arm.

“No, it’s fine,” Arthur says, taking a step back, “I’m--I’ll--” He laughs and it sounds terrible, even to himself. “I just wanted to see if you wanted to get Chinese food with me. It’s fine.”

“I’m not busy,” Eames insists. _“Arthur._ Come in, for Christ’s sake.”

Arthur hesitates.

“Come _in.”_ Eames clears the doorway, setting the bowl on the table.

Arthur, drawn in by the mess he can already see, steps inside. “I don’t have to stay for long,” he says, shrugging off his coat. “I was just going out to-- _what_ is _that?”_

A blackened lump the size of Arthur’s head sits on the counter, shedding burnt flakes on the plate underneath it.

“Erm, that was the ham,” Eames says, whisking the bowl briskly. “Don’t worry! I have another one.”

“Jesus,” Arthur says. “Are you inviting an army over?” He looks into a pan of some kind of casserole. This one looks pretty good, actually.

“Er--no,” Eames says. The oven goes off. “Could you get that, darling, my hands are--the mitts are right--yes, perfect.”

Arthur pulls open the oven to reveal a ham, this time in much better shape, as well as a smattering of potatoes. He lifts the whole tray out and looks around for a place to put it. “Where does this--there’s no space, Jesus.”

“I think I can--” Eames picks up a bowl of dry ingredients from the table and empties it into the bowl he’s whisking. He places the empty bowl on the ground. “Right here.”

Arthur gingerly pushes the tray into the small space on the table, nearly capsizing a salad bowl in the process. When he scrambles to save it, he jostles another plate, and a single pig in a blanket rolls off onto the floor.

“Fuck--sorry, Eames--”

Eames swoops down and pops it into his mouth. “No problem,” he says, muffled, still whisking. He swallows and holds the bowl up to the light. “That’s quite mixed, innit? S’fine,” and he pours the batter into the cake tin sitting on the stove.

“Where did all of these dishes come from?” Arthur boggles.

“I made them!” Eames pronounces, wiping his floury hands on his pants. “Most of them,” he amends.

“They’re beautiful,” Arthur says approvingly. “I meant the, uh, plates and pots and pans and stuff. I mean, no one just has this many baking trays lying around.” Arthur eyes Eames. “Wait. Are you a chef or something? Because the pizza we had was definitely from frozen.”

“Nah, mate, just had a little shopping spree.” Eames slides the cake into the oven. “And...that should be the last of it. I think.” Eames examines the counter and tabletops critically. “Oh! The soup!”

“Soup?”

Eames removes the lid from the pot on the stove and peers in. “Okay, it’s fine. Let’s start with this.”

“How--where do we eat?” Arthur accepts the bowl of soup Eames offers him, then pauses. Uncertainly, he says, “Um, shouldn’t we wait for your guests?”

“Guests?” Eames echoes, sounding baffled as he ladles his own bowl of soup. “Let’s sit in the armchairs.”

Arthur picks the chair he first sat in those weeks ago. He curls his hands around the warm bowl and holds it up to his face, inhaling deeply. It’s tomato basil--it smells amazing. “Well, you didn’t make all of this for me,” he jokes.

“Mmm,” Eames says noncommittally, and spoons some soup into his mouth.

Arthur stares at him. “I mean. You didn’t.”

“Nonsense, some of it’s for me. It’s good, isn’t it? Try it.”

“But--” Arthur laughs lightly “--you didn’t say anything to me.You haven’t said anything to me. I just came over--I was on my way out.”

“Maybe you don’t like soup,” Eames says, not looking at Arthur, “which is a terrible sin, but I can work with it. The pigs in blankets are quite good, even if I--”

“Eames.”

“--possibly burnt some of them, but what’s Christmas without a good pig in a blanket? At least, that’s what my--”

_“Eames.”_

Eames finally locks eyes with Arthur. He licks his lips and sets his soup on top of the stack of books on the end table. “I was...thinking.”

“Thinking.”

“I do, on occasion.”

“About?”

Eames sighs. “I was standing in Asda holding a bottle of wine and thinking Eames, there’s a beautiful boy living right below you who’s also going to be alone on Christmas, and you’re planning on getting drunk and reorganizing your lights, you sad, pathetic man. So I…” he makes a movement toward the whole spread, the mess of food and plates and bowls and utensils across the kitchenette “...but I think I went a tad overboard. And, erm, I realized you don’t even celebrate Christmas. So.”

“Oh, Eames,” Arthur says.

Eames hunches over, a little defensively. “Will you try the soup, at least, Arthur?” he asks.

Arthur tries the soup.

“It’s delicious,” he says.

…

They barely manage to make a dent in everything Eames cooked. Arthur has to plead off from the Christmas cake, promising to try it tomorrow, which is just as well because when Eames tries to cut a slice it crumbles under his knife, still too warm.

They settle into Eames’s couch, Eames flicking lazily through the channels as Arthur’s head lists further and further down, until he’s just laying in Eames’s lap, eyelids heavy. Eames rumbles something every once in a while, comments about the shows they flick past, but eventually he just goes quiet and strokes Arthur’s hair.

Arthur is dozing off when Eames says suddenly, “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” 

“Hmm?” Arthur struggles back into consciousness. “I can stay,” he mumbles. He was thinking about it, really. The couch is quite comfortable and he’s feeling too warm and cozy to make the trek back down the stairs.

“No, I mean. You’re _leaving.”_

 _Oh._ Arthur pulls himself up off of Eames’s lap and stares at him. “Um.” He shouldn’t tell him. It would...compromise his security, or expose all of dreamshare, or something. He should tell him his cover story--that he really did move in, and it’s permanent, and he’s just left most of his stuff in his old place, or he just doesn’t own that much, or he lost everything in a fire, and he’s definitely, definitely staying.

“Yes,” he says.

Eames nods, unsurprised. “When?”

Arthur lies back down. “Not right now,” he says. Eames resumes stroking his hair. “Not yet.”

…

Not yet, but soon.

Arthur has been here too long already, he can feel it. The itching worry in his bones that someone will find him--and, now, that someone will find Eames. He’s kept this place pretty wrapped up, but it’s only a matter of time in this business.

He spends the week between Christmas and New Year’s in Eames’s place, making out with Eames and fucking with his lights and bickering over movies and books and slowly working through the Christmas leftovers. It’s nice. It’s _really_ nice.

It’s not for him. 

Cobb starts texting him about possible jobs, and Arthur finds himself fantasizing about dreams again. He imagines tall, fantastic structures and doodles impossible shapes in the empty Moleskine Eames had lying around. He hasn’t used the PASIV since the job. This business, he muses, echoing what Mal once said to him, really is an addiction.

He knows Eames can tell he’s getting restless. Eames is clever, terribly so. He’s going to waste here in Manchester, for all he appears happy with his little apartment and his lights. But the tenuous strings holding their lives together are breaking, one by one. At least this will be a nice memory to look back on--Eames the Christmas lights enthusiast, with his warm apartment and his warm bed and his warm body.

In another life, Arthur thinks, watching Eames hum over toast in the kitchen, I would have fallen in love with you.

In the end, he doesn’t say goodbye. He kisses Eames one last time, though, and Eames kisses back like he knows. He leaves a note in one of Eames’s books. Just one word.

_Dreamshare._

…

_One year later._

“Arthur.”

“Yeah, hey, Cobb.”

“So it’s a little complex, but manageable. The client invested big in Tenetcoin, which is--”

“The cryptocurrency, right.”

“Yes, but right before the company blew up, the owner died under mysterious circumstances, and with him the only way for anyone to access the wealth.”

“Mhmm.”

“The client is convinced that the owner’s husband knows what really happened.”

“And that’s where we come in?”

“Precisely.”

“Who else is on the team? Mal?”

“No, this time we have Berg.”

“Okay. Berg.”

“And...have you heard about that new forger?”

“Mmm.”

“He was on the Laverne job. Eames.”

“...What? Did you say Eames?”

“Yeah...didn’t you hear about it?”

“Of course, but I...I didn’t catch the forger’s name.”

“Well, I snagged him for this. We’ll be meeting him soon. Do you want his number?”

Arthur blinks. Then, he smiles.

“Sure.”

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://queuebird.tumblr.com/)


End file.
